Seven
by Counternet
Summary: A man from the far north who has lost everything. A woman from the Frozen Shore who longs to be South of the Wall. A man from Between the Forks who wants revenge. A deserter from the Night's Watch who wants to live. A whore from Mole's Town who wants more for her son. A smith from Barrowtown who lusts for power. An Ironborn man who lusts for Gold. What will they achieve? Please R&R
1. Prologue

The icy cold winds swept snow around him, reducing visibility until he could barely see more than ten feet into the distance. Not that he needed to see any farther; all three of the Others were far less than ten feet away.

He twirled his obsidian tipped spear in an arc above his head, keeping them at bay. No stranger to fighting Others, he had been doing it since he was a boy of eight. So had his father and his father's father and his father before him. So had his mother and his mother's mother, and her mother before her. It's what everyone did this far north.

He plunged his spear into the first Other, and it disintegrated before his eyes. Spinning away from the others, he lowered the spear as a challenge to the remaining two, who seemed stunned to realize he had a weapon that was deadly to them. White Walkers never seemed to remember that weapons to kill them did exist.

He feinted at the White Walker on the left, before spinning again to his right and jamming his spear into the exposed flank of the second one, which melted. In some ways the Walkers were even more vulnerable than human: a human wouldn't disintegrate if the wrong metal was shoved into them.

The final White Walker was wary of him now. It watched the spear, blue eyes glowing with fear. The man relished this look in its eyes. To see a creature like an Other, confident in its ability to kill anything that moved, with the same look as a rabbit caught in a trap was as exhilarating as anything else the man had experienced.

But this time was different. This time the man wanted more from the Other. He wanted it to pay for what it had done. The man had hunted this particular Walker for days.

He tossed the spear aside and drew a smaller, obsidian dagger.

"Are you prepared to die?" he asked the Walker.

The Walker responded by swinging its sword of ice, which the man leapt back from. It swung again and this time the man parried with his dagger.

The two circled each other, each waiting for an opening. After a trio of rotations, the Walker attacked again. The man was a hair too slow to evade, and the blade of ice left a very shallow cut, almost imperceptible, on his arm.

The Other laughed as the man looked at his wrist, but the laughter was cut short when he spoke.

"I really hate it when this happens" he said. Noting the look on the Walker's face, he continued. "Yes, you lot think the slightest touch from your blade causes a mortal wound, don't you. Well, you're wrong.

"But, this does mean I'm going to have to cut short my fun. Before you die, I want you to know that their names were Cate and Alyse, and they were my family. I put my spear in the skulls of the wights that were once my wife and daughter because of you. I wish you were human, so I cut you apart slowly and send you back to the Night King in pieces. But I will have to content myself with your demise."

He darted at the Other, who raised its sword between them, but the man switched directions, and in a single smooth motion threw the obsidian dagger. The dragonglass blade buried itself in the eye of the White Walker, and it disintegrated.

The man spat on pile of ice that had once been the Other who killed his family. Then he set about gathering the things to build a fire. It was dangerous to build fires this far north. Fire was a dead giveaway to the Walkers that a human had invaded their domain. But fire was necessary if he was going to live much more than a few minutes, even though he had suffered such a minor wound to the hand.

The man considered not building the fire. Why save himself? His family was all dead. There was nothing left for him here. But something pulled on him, something as strong as the hate that had pulled the man to this place. Like a fishhook buried in his spine, something was pulling him south. Looking down at the pile of ice, the last thing that held him to this place, the man decided to answer the call. As soon as he was sure he would live through the night, the man decided he would head south.


	2. Chapter 1

6 Months before the Death of Jon Arryn

 **Cenn**

Cenn had always known his family and the six other families that lived within a day's walk of his home had lived far, far, far to the north of anyone else, but he had not realized exactly how far north they were. Cenn had walked due south every single day for more than half a year and he was only now starting to see signs of other humans.

Over the past six months Cenn had doubted his sanity more than once. After a month he had begun to question whether or not he was actually headed south. After three, he was sure he was not. By now, even though his instincts promised him he was headed south, his mind questioned every step.

But here in the snow was a snare for a hare, and this proved he had finally reached the outskirts of the domain of men. The White Walkers had once pushed far, far further South than this. During the Long Night, they had even gotten as far as four hundred leagues south of the Wall. Even now, in the height of summer, he knew they ranged as far south as within a day's walk of the Wall.

He remembered once, near two decades ago, when Cenn was not but a boy of twelve, his father and some of the men from the other nearby families had captured a White Walker alive. White Walker's couldn't be tortured, but they did fear death, or at least this one had. It had told them of a Wall far to the south, a Wall over one thousand feet high and defended by killer crows, a Wall the Night King was bound to get past. Knowing rumor always exaggerated, Cenn's father had estimated the Wall was really twenty-five to thirty feet in height and defended by men in black cloaks. Not exactly a supernatural barrier, but formidable all the same.

Cenn stopped walking, and sat down against a tree and wondered for the millionth time why he was headed south. He was not sure what he hoped to find down here, not sure this call was anything more than his own imagination. Cate and Alyse were to the north. Even in death, they had power over him; they called to him. He desperately missed them.

Cate had been his mate for fifteen years, and they had been mating for longer. Together they had had five strong boys and Alyse. But all of his sons had been ripped away from him by the White Walkers while they were yet children. Only the firstborn had reached manhood, and he had died within a month of that milestone. But through all of the sorrow he had never given up. He had never abandoned his home. But Alyse's death had broken him.

Maybe part of the reason he had abandoned the north, had answered the call, was because he couldn't bear to be in his hut, to sit around his fire without Alyse, while the memories of her were walking around. He couldn't sleep in the furs where Cate had nestled up against him without her. Every time he had lost a child, he had hunted down the White Walker or wight responsible and killed it, sometimes vanishing for weeks on end. And when he came back, Cate had been there. Alyse had been there.

Maybe another part of the reason he was headed south was because he hoped to find something, anything that would make the pain go away. Unlike his boys, Alyse's corpse had not been mutilated when she had died. No matter what Cenn did, he could not stop seeing his beautiful baby girl with his knife in her eye socket. He knew he had not killed her, that the wight was not her, but that did not change the way his heart contorted every time Cenn closed his eyes.

A final reason for his trek, perhaps, was one Cenn had hidden away in the back of his mind, the bottom of his heart, and the pit of his soul: the possibility that there was some magic south of the Wall that would bring his baby girl back to him. He knew it was impossible. He did not care. Alyse was dead, and so Cenn no longer cared about what was impossible. From this point forward, Cenn would be the one deciding what could or could not be done.

By the time Cenn's reverie had ended the sun was dipping quickly below the horizon, so Cenn began climbing up the tree he had rested against to tie himself in for the night. When one traveled alone as far north as Cenn's home, one learned the safest ways to sleep, and a tree was always the first choice. Evergreens with thick blankets of needles were great, second to only the Weirwoods, which the Other's avoided for some unknown reason. Cenn did not like to sleep in them; whenever he did, a night full of disturbing dreams of ice and fire followed, dreams of children, with eyes of green, throwing balls of light at the White Walkers while great beasts flew above, spewing fire indiscriminately. But as miserable as those nights were, Cenn was not foolish enough to pass up a night in a tree the Walkers would not touch.

But this was no weirwood. It was a tree unlike anything Cenn had ever seen. It was tall like a weirwood, though much thinner, Branches grew out of the tree, branches with no leaves on them. Cenn had never seen a tree like this, which was not an evergreen or a weirwood. But it looked strong and tall, so Cenn climbed into it for the night.

"I miss you guys" Cenn whispered, as he closed his eyes.

 _"Papa" Aylse called to him as he came back to the cabin, a fawn draped over his shoulders from his hunt. She ran to greet him and leapt into a hug, wrapping herself around him and nearly knocking him over. He waddled over to the hut where he deposited the deer, before returning Alyse's hug. He kissed the top of her head, then lifted her chin to look into her eyes, blue as the daytime sky, framed by a mane of red. Kissed by fire, just like her mother. He kissed her nose and then released her._

 _"Guess what, papa" she exclaimed, practically bouncing with excitement._

 _"You made dinner?" he guessed, knowing how she loved cooking._

 _"No, papa. I killed a wight today."_

 _"Your first one?" he asked. "Where was it?" he asked Cate, who had just exited the hut._

 _"It was inside the fence" Cate said. "And there were two more on the other side of the hut. It was as if they were coordinating this, trying to get inside. And there's only thing that makes them smart enough to do that."_

 _"There's a Walker nearby." She nodded at him before continuing._

 _"I would prefer it if you stayed here tomorrow."_

 _"Tomorrow, I need to help Rikard fix his hut. Fool man nearly slept through a wight digging its way through the wall."_

 _"What if the Walker comes when you're away? You know they never come without a host of wights, and I can't fight them all. I need you here."_

 _"The Walker won't come tomorrow. It will have to head south to gather more wights."_

 _"Cenn, I really think you should stay, just in case. I can't fight a Walker and a horde by myself."_

 _"You won't be by yourself, mommy. You'll have me."_

 _"Hear that, Cate, you'll have Alyse Wightsbane here to help you. All will be well, I promise you."_

Cenn woke the next morning with tears frozen to his face.


	3. Chapter 2

6 months before the death of Jon Arryn

 **Stann**

Stann did not want to go on the ranging. He did not want to be at Castle Black. He did not want to be anywhere near this frozen wasteland the people of the North called home. Stann was a Reachman. Well, not quite. He would be thirteen in nine days, three days after the ranging was due to depart Castle Black.

Like almost everyone here, quite possibly everyone below the age of thirty, Stann had not chosen to be a man of the Night's Watch of his own volition. But events in the Reach had conspired to send him here, and Stann had had the choice of a probably short life in the Night's Watch or a guaranteed shorter one ending in a back alley of Highgarden. Who would not choose to live, even if it was only for a short time longer?

"I heard you're going on the ranging, Snowhopper" a friendly voice said, as Manfred Waters sat down beside him. Many of the men of the Watch, especially those from below the Neck, had taken to calling Stann Snowhopper, because they said he moved as quickly over snow as a grasshopper over grass in the south. "Tell me, Snowhopper, is this true?"

"Aye, Man, it is" Stann replied. "I'm to go north of the Wall in six days, along with a company of eleven others, to see if we can find a trace of the missing Rangers."

Manfred drained his mug of ale, or what passed for ale around Castle Black, and took a long swallow before responding.

"Three rangers go north on a ranging three months ago. They don't come back. And they're just now sending a party out to search for signs of them? Seems like something that should have been done weeks ago."

Turning to his plate, Manfred cut into his meat. No one was particularly interested in what kind of meat it was. Better to not ask and imagine it came from some animal the Seven had designed to be eaten.

"They don't normally send out search parties for missing Rangers at all" Man said, when he was done chewing. "If a party doesn't come back, it probably means the Wildlings got them. Or the weather."

Manfred would be one to know: Stann didn't know exactly how long Man had been a member of the Night's Watch, but Man had told him he'd been on the Wall since before the mothers of most of the men of the Watch had taken a ride on the land carrack, whatever that meant. In Stann's case, Man figured he was here before Stann's grandmother had ridden the ship. Regardless, Manfred was one of a dying breed of men: those who had volunteered to be here.

"So why are we riding out, if not to find Royce and his men?"

"Probably to see what old Mance is up to. Same reason every ranging happens, even if Stark and Mormont say different."

"Mance Rayder? The King-Beyond-the-Wall?"

"Aye. Old Mance really did good for himself out there. It's a pity we're on opposite sides now. We had quite a few mugs of ale, the two of us."

"You knew Mance Rayder?" Stann asked in amazement.

"He lived at the Shadowtower for almost forty years; he was a man of the Night's Watch for thirty. Mance was even considered for Lord Commander once upon a time."

"Mance Rayder, the Lord Commander?"

"Aye. I voted for him, figured he'd do good for the Watch. But he didn't even manage to get more votes than the Halfhand, and the Halfhand was protesting his nomination every step of the way."

"Stann" a voice that was all too familiar to Stann called. "It's time to spar."

"Got to go" Stann whispered to Manfred.

"I'll finish my second mug on my own" Manfred smiled. "Gives me time to think about the old days."

Stann quickly got outside to face his least favorite person on this earth, save his father: Micah. Micah wasn't much older than Stann, seventeen at most, but Micah was huge. He was tall where Stann was short, wide where Stann was narrow, thick where Stann was thin. Micah had been sent to the wall after he killed a man, whereas Stann had been born to the wrong mother.

Micah tossed him a sword, but didn't wait for him to be ready before attacking. Micah led with a heavy overhead strike, all of his weight behind the blow. Stann barely managed to raise his blade above his head before the blow came down. The impact of turned Stann's arms to water, and it was all he could do not to drop the sword. Micah followed with another two handed power blow that ripped Stann's sword away. Micah finished the fight by punching Stann in the head, driving him into the ground.

Stann saw his life flash before his eyes as he collided with the earth below him. He tried to push himself up but failed the first time. Embarrassed, Stann tried to push himself up again. Again, he failed. Finally, Stann managed to pick himself up.

"Pick up your sword, runt" Micah said.

Shaking, Stann picked up his sword. He hadn't yet straightened up when Micah brought his practice sword down on Stann, driving him back into the dirt.

"If I were a Wilding you would be dead" Micah said. "I hope you're not guarding my back next week."

A loud smack sounded and Stann saw a practice sword connect with back of Micah's head. Micah fell to the ground holding his head.

"Wildlings do not wait for you to be ready before they attack you" said First Ranger Benjen Stark. "That is why you need your Brothers to guard your back. And you, Micah, what you are doing is destroying any trust your Brothers have for you. You are alienating the only people who will stand between you and a Wildling spear. Now get up."

Micah hesitantly complied.

"Pick up your sword"

Micah attacked. In the blink of an eye he was flight on his back.

"Again" the First Ranger commanded.

Micah went down before he could even get back to his feet.

"Get up" Benjen said.

This time Benjen let Micah get up.

Micah attacked, but Benjen stepped away from the blow. Micah overcommitted and stumbled past Benjen, who tapped him on his back and danced away.

Micah spun and tried again, with even poorer results. A third try finally ended with Micah on the ground again and unarmed.

"How does this make you feel?" Benjen asked him, before sheathing his sword. He walked over and clapped Stann on the back.

"Find some work to do" he told Stann, before heading back up to the Lord Commander's office. Stopping, he turned around and yelled back down, "We leave in six days. Whatever problems you have with each other, work them out by then."


	4. Chapter 3

6 Months before the death of Jon Arryn

 **Dagar**

Dagar Redsteel inhaled the beautiful smell of salt and moisture that was the open sea. He had always thought the smell of the sea to be the purest smell in the world, and one of the most beautiful things to behold. There were only three things better than captaining a ship on the open sea, four that were more beautiful: the surprise on a merchant captain's face, when his men lowered the stag banner of House Baratheon and raised his standard, the bloody axe; a bare and beautiful woman in his bed; the gore that spilled over his hands when he killed a man; and the weight of golden coins sliding through his fingertips.

Unfortunately, this excursion had contained precious few of the things Dagar loved. He had been duped into this ill-fated expedition under Sigfryd Harlaw, the great-grandson of the more famous Sigfryd Harlaw, called Silverhair. The man had convinced Dagar there was a mountain of treasure on the land across the Sunset Sea, easily taken by any man brave enough to sail across.

So they had set off with enough provisions to last for seven fortnights. But when they had reached the half-way point of their provisions, Harlaw had continued, instead of turning his ship around and sailing back to the islands. A week later, Dagar killed him and two others before tuning the ship around. That had been last week.

Dagar could still see the bloodstains on the deck and remembered his work fondly. He savored the memory of Sigfryd cowering under his axe, his flesh giving way beneath Dagar's blade. Dagar dreamed of the way Sigfryd had screamed when the axe entered his belly. He ran his tongue over his lips and tasted satisfaction with his work.

Dagar still was not unconvinced that there was land and gold and women across the sea for the taking. For all he knew, they might have spotted land the next day. But Dagar was not interested in betting his life on the chance gold, no matter how likely it seemed.

Dagar was pulled from his pleasant memories by the approach of his second, Dagmar Redsteel. The similarities between their names fascinated Dagar, even more so because the two were of no relation. But Dagmar had been born with the name Redsteel, Dagar had earned it with his bloody exploits.

"Still no mutinous rumblings" Dagmar said. "A week removed from the change of power, no hint of rebellion at this point means you're in the clear, assuming you don't blow it."

Dagar nodded. He had not thought there would be any mutiny from the sailors. He had paid the iron price for his command.

"Have you planned for your return, m'lord" Dagmar asked him. "The Harlaw's won't take kindly to this, even if the lad was fool who got what was coming to him."

"Don't call me m'lord, Dagmar. I got where I am by the strength in my arms and the blade of my axe, not by the accident of birth. As for when we get back, I think I'll be organizing an expedition. Somewhere the longships of the Ironborn have never gone before."

A light shone in Dagmar's eyes. He liked to be the first to do a thing, which partially explained his taste in women.

"Where will we go?"

"Don't worry about that yet. First we have to get home without starving to death or dying of dehydration."

There were only three ways of dying worse than starvation, four that Dagmar feared. He did not want to be flayed, burned, crucified, or die of old age. A man should die quickly, with an axe in his hand, fighting for glory. He should not be tortured, nor should he be made to fight a foe he can't kill.

"Shouldn't be too difficult to make the provisions last" Dagar heard Dagmar say, and his mind was drawn back as he suppressed a shudder. Dagar didn't even lack to think about those unfortunate ways to die.

"When we are down to ten days of rations left, we'll cut to half rations" Dagmar continued, oblivious to Dagar's lack of interest.

"Dagmar" Dagar interrupted, taken by sudden fancy. Nothing made Dagar think about life than thoughts of his own inevitable demise. "What is it you want more than anything else? If I were the Drowned God, and were offering you anything in the whole world, what you ask me for?"

Dagmar stopped to think about the question, though he didn't look to be pondering the question too deeply.

"I woman with silver hair, I think. If you were the Drowned God and offered me any one thing, I think I would ask for a woman with silver hair."

"Interesting" Dagar responded. "Do you have a particular woman in mind? I've never seen a woman with silver hair."

"I haven't either. But wouldn't it be great to have a woman with silver hair?"

"Depends on what the rest of her looks like" Dagar said.

Both men laughed.

"What about you?" Dagmar asked when he regained his breath. "If I were the Drowned God and were offering you whatever your heart desired, what would you ask for?"

"I would ask for one thousand dragons a day, every day, for the rest of my life."

"Not very original" Dagmar observed.

"With all that gold, I could have whatever I wanted. I could buy anything I wanted. I could be a king, for what king could resist the gold I could offer. I would buy the best food, the best wine, the best women, perhaps even one with silver hair. But I would also ask that my gift pass itself on to the man who kills me, so I would have no shortage of fights. After all, life would be quite boring without someone to kill every now and again."

"If I had a mug, I would propose a toast" Dagmar said. "To more gold than the Lannisters and a woman with silver hair."

"To a woman with silver hair and more gold than the Lannisters."


	5. Chapter 4

6 months before the death of Jon Arryn

 **The Eagle**

The man who had once been called Theron woke, and the first thing he was cognitively aware of was his beautiful wife, the Doe. Her eyes were still closed, her mind still lost in the land of dreams. The Eagle hoped they were dreams of him.

Their bodies were still pressed together from where they had finally fallen into a blissfully exhausted sleep. The Eagle hoped they would continue this morning where they left off. Her breath was hot against his face, her skin smooth against his, her heartbeat strong. His heart pulsed in rhythm with hers, pulsed strongly with love for her.

The Eagle heard movement outside his hut. Probably one of his sons, of which there were three. The oldest was the Wolf, who had a son of his own. The middle son was the Raven, who had inherited his mother's dark hair. The youngest was called Matthias, who had not yet been given his true name.

Soon though, Matthias would be given his true name. The thought made the Eagle feel old. It shouldn't though. He could still lead, still fight, still keep his woman happy. It was only when he couldn't do one of these things that he would really be old.

The Doe continued to sleep, and the Eagle regretfully extricated himself from underneath the furs. It was still early, but the Eagle was excited. Today was the day his scouts were expected to return.

Several moons ago, the Eagle had sent out the Hare, the Stag, and the Falcon to scout for a suitable pass for the Eagle's battle. The thrill of battle called to him. The heat, the screams, the chaos, the desperation, the battlerush, the thrill of battle excited the Eagle like nothing else. Well, almost nothing else, the Eagle thought as he glanced at his wife.

He finished donning his furs, and then attached his talon. He had taken the weapon from a ranger of the Night's Watch, after severing three of his fingers. It was small, spring-loaded blade worn at the wrist, and made out of some mysterious substance much stronger than the stone or deer-bone that fashioned the weapons of choice for most of the Free Folk.

Exiting his hut, the Eagle looked around at the small village of Free Folk, of which he was the chief. The people who lived here, between the forks, followed him because they trusted him, mush the same as the Free Folk in general trusted Mance Rayder. But where Mance was charismatic, the Eagle had never been able to inspire people to follow him with words. The Eagle had sworn to kill the Magnar of Thenn after a Thenn raiding party had killed two dozen members of their community long ago. Now the Eagle had a chance to do it.

Messages from Mance had gone out, calling all Free Folk to attend to the King-Beyond-the Wall. The Eagle was not opposed to Mance, indeed he had never met him. The last leader of their community, the Crow, had trusted Mance. He had claimed a special connection to Mance; from one crow to another he had said. When this was done, the Eagle would probably not be in charge any more. His leadership was for this task, and once it was complete the group would choose a new leader. The Eagle would follow without complaint if the new leader chose Mance. But he would also be more than happy to stay. This community, though nomadic, had always been between the forks.

"Will they come today, Father?" asked the Raven, features obscured by the rising sun at his back.

"I expect them to" said the Eagle. "But if not, they will come tomorrow, or the day after. One day, whether it is today, tomorrow, or in the summer after next, we will kill him."

"I'm worried about them. We sent three men to scout the Valley of Thenn. We may as well have attempted to raid the Maggot's home as scout the Valley of Thenn and expect nothing to go drastically wrong."

The Eagle shuddered at the mention of the Maggot. Other Free Folk called him the Night King, but the community between the forks had been calling him the Maggot since before the Eagle had been given his true name.

Before he had become the Maggot, he had been the Rainbow Trout, when he was still a member of the community between the forks. But the Worm, the Night King before the Maggot, had done something to him. The Rainbow Trout had been the best of them. He had been a beautiful man, who made all the women swoon. He had been a fantastic leader, one who truly cared for the well-being of his people. The legends said that not a single member of the community between the forks had died in the entire forty years of the Rainbow Trout's leadership. But then the Worm did something to him, and now he was the Maggot, one who feasts on what is dead.

Three silhouettes appeared behind the Raven, features lost in the sun. Even shadowed, the Eagle recognized them as his scouts.

The Hare was a small, diminutive man, who was even faster than his name suggested. The Stag was a bigger man, though he had gotten his name because he spent every free moment he had chasing the Doe. The Falcon was older, and gray around the temples. In battle, he would often vanish, only to reappear in the least expected places with devastating effect.

"We found a suitable ambush point" the Stag said. "But we will need to move quickly to get to there before the Thenns. It is well outside the forks."

The Eagle nodded.

"But be warned" the Falcon said, "the Thenn's have more than one hundred answering Mance's call. It will not be easy. They are all warriors. We are not."

"They are dispassionate" the Eagle said. "We fight with fire in our hearts, giving us strength. We fight for revenge for what they did."

"We need not fight them" suggested the Hare. "A single well-placed arrow could end this. I could take the shot, hit the Magnar in the throat, and be out before they ever knew I was there."

"No" said the Stag. "The Thenn's must pay like we did on that day."

"Wars start when we will, but never end when we wish" the Hare said. "Imagine what starting a war with the Thenn's could do to this community. It would destroy us all. Please, Eagle, let me do this, let me take the shot."

The Eagle considered it. A war with the Thenns could end very badly. He had seen what a small force of them could do. However, if the ambush was successful, the Thenns would never know who had killed their men. If the Hare was caught, and he gave up the community, the community would suffer a slaughter without inflicting any casualties to the Thenns. But most importantly, the community followed the Eagle because he promised them vengeance. If he let the Hare go alone, he was denying many their vengeance.

"I'm sorry, Hare" the Eagle said. "I need you three to gather up a force. Anyone who wants to go, who you think will not be a hindrance. We leave when the sun is two hands past its zenith." With that, the Eagle walked away.

The Doe startled him on his way back past the hut. She kissed him, and he held her in his arms.

"You leave today?" she asked.

"Yes" he answered. "Will you come with us?"

"No. The Wolf and his woman both go. I must watch our grandson."

"I will miss you. I could be gone a long time."

"Then I must give you something to remember me by."

Some time later, the Eagle left the community with a force of nine-and-twenty behind him.


	6. Chapter 5

6 Months Before the Death of Jon Arryn

 **Stann**

The gate was raised slowly, and the light began to pierce the darkness in the tunnel. The twelve rangers waited atop their mounts, waited for the opening to be cleared. They sat in pairs, atop mounts as dark as the cloaks their riders wore.

Stann was on the left side of the fifth row, and he was shaking. Micah was on the right side of the third row, looking for all the world as if this were what he were born to do. Benjen was on the left side of the first row, the only man who looked more at ease than Micah. But Stann could see a difference in the two men's demeanor: Benjen knew the dangers that awaited them beyond the Wall and was confident in his ability to overcome them. Micah was too stupid to realize how dangerous it was. And Stann, well he was too craven to care.

Benjen Stark gave the signal, and the company advanced out beyond the safety of the Wall into the territory of the Wildlings.

The company rode all day and part way into the night, following the lead of the First Ranger, who seemed to know exactly where he was going, though how he knew was beyond Stann. What he did know was that the First Ranger did not need him or any of the others to accomplish what he had set out to do. Perhaps others took confidence from this, drew strength from the power of their commander. For Stann, it was just one more confirmation that he was expendable.

They broke camp at first light, and began moving north again. As far as Stann could tell they were headed due north. The reason given for this mission was to find the three missing rangers. But it was almost as if Benjen knew exactly where they had been headed, for he did not seem interested in stopping to try and find traces of them. Not that there would be many traces after three months.

On the third day, the company again moved almost due North, perhaps veering slightly to the west. But something was different this day. The First Ranger seemed agitated, as if something were eating away at him. He kept staring off into the tree line, as if looking for his quarry around every tree, and surprised by what was not there. Throughout the whole day, he never removed his hand from his sword.

That night, while seated around the fire, Benjen seemed even surer that something was lurking just out of sight.

They sat around the fire, and one by one the men drifted off to sleep until it was only the First Ranger and Stann still awake.

The two sat around the crackling fire, both lost in their own thoughts. The First Ranger still had his hand on his sword.

"Snowhopper" he said.

"m'lord" Stann responded.

"Call me, Benjen. Lord Stark is my brother." Stann was uncertain of the First Ranger's informality. It didn't sit well with the anxious man ready to draw his weapon if someone breathed too loudly.

"Today is your nameday, is it not?"

"It is, m'lord, I mean, Benjen."

"How old are you?"

"Thirteen"

"By the gods" he said in surprise. "You've been with us for almost a year. How in the seven hells did you get yourself sent to the Wall at twelve."

"Eleven. I was sent to the Wall at eleven. My mother died giving birth to me. Father remarried, and when his new wife gave him a son, he didn't want any complications in the line of succession."

"I did not realize your father was a lord."

"He wasn't. But he was wealthy." Benjen was silent.

"On one hand," he finally said, "I understand being pushed aside in favor of on the other, I have no idea what that must have been like for you." He sighed. "All three of my siblings are famous throughout the whole Seven Kingdoms, but people often forget Ned Stark has a younger brother. But I wasn't cast out in favor of him."

"Brandon and Lyanna destroyed Westeros, and Ned remade it, along with Jon Arryn. Robert was just along for the ride" Stann said. "But while they played politics, you protected the realm. You, the one who will forever be the unsung Stark, are the greatest hero of them all."

"Tell me, Stann" Benjen said, ignoring Stann's last remark, "is there something about our trek so far that makes you uneasy."

"The truth is, Benjen, everything about this journey makes me uneasy. I do not know why I was chosen to be a Ranger."

"Because fifty years from now, when you are the obvious choice for Lord Commander, you will be the only Ranger who can claim fifty years of service to the Night's Watch."

"If I am still alive fifty years from now."

"There is that" Benjen conceded. "But what makes you uneasy about your surroundings right now? What is missing?"

"Sound? Warmth? I really don't know."

"What is the first thing you think of when I say the words 'North of the Wall'?"

"Wildlings?"

"Exactly! Where are the Wildlings? We're almost fifty miles from the Wall and we haven't seen a single Wildling."

"You were expecting to have been attacked by now, and the lack of Wildlings is making you uneasy" Stann said, finally understanding the First Ranger's confusion.

"Not attacked, exactly. Wildlings this close to the Wall are generally fairly cooperative with the Watch, unless they think they can overwhelm our patrols, which usually means one of the northern warlords has come south. But the Wildlings fight each other as much as they do us. In fact, we spend a fair amount of time defending the Wildling settlements within a day's ride of the Wall.

"No, it's not an attack I've been expecting. But we haven't even seen a Wildling. It's as if they've all gone somewhere. I was expecting to hear news of a northern warlord come down to terrorize the southern villages and the Watch, but that does not seem to be the case."

"So what do you think happened to our Rangers."

"I don't know, Snowhopper. But there are stories of things worse than Wildings north of the Wall."

"Worse things?" Stann asked, feeling the flame of panic rise up in his chest again.

"The stories tell of dead men walking, of creatures of Ice and Children of the Forest, and of a Three-Eyed Crow."

"And you believe these stories?"

"If you want me to tell you they are not real, I cannot do that. The Wildlings are very adamant they exist. I've never seen a dead man walk, or a walker made of ice, but men do not build three hundred foot high walls to stop other humans from crossing. And the Night's Watch has a signal for the dead approaching"

"If dead men really do walk beyond the Wall, how do we kill them?"

"I don't know. But the Wildlings always burn their dead, so fire may be useful. But perhaps the fire stops them from resurrecting and has no effect on a moving dead person. "

"So if the stories are true and we encounter a monster, we run?"

"No. If we encounter a creature from the stories, we must find some way to kill it."

"But what if there is no way to kill it?"

"Then our watch will be ended."

That night, Stann went to sleep with a wetness in his pants that had not come from the snow.


	7. Chapter 6

5 Months Before the death of Jon Arryn

 **Cenn**

Another month gone, another month in which every day had contained a long walk headed south. Cenn still had not reached the Wall, but he had encountered no shortage of wights.

The encounters had shaken Cenn's entire view of the world. Cenn had always thought his family and the families like his had protected the people down here from the White Walkers. But down here, down south, there were more wights than Cenn would ever have imagined. He had dispatched all he had come across with practiced ease, but Cenn no longer knew what good he had been doing with his life.

He, his family, and the families like his had given up so much to shelter the world of men from the threat of the Walkers. They had stayed north in spite of every hardship, through the deaths of family and friends. Cenn had put down the wights that had once been his sons, his wife, his daughter. He knew now that they could have come south any time and done just as much good for the worlds of men. His family should be alive. They could have lived down here and been safe. But they hadn't.

"You couldn't have saved them" a voice from behind him said.

Cenn spun around, obsidian spear ready. The figure behind him did not even attempt to move. The black tip of the spear point passed within an inch of the creature's face. It did not blink.

What stood in front of him was a creature with a child-like physique, with green eyes and red hair. He had seen creatures like this one fighting the Others in the dreams he had while sleeping in a Weirwood.

"You are one of the Old Ones?" Cenn asked, though there was no doubt in his mind. He had never seen an Old One before, only in his dreams, but if the creatures from his dreams were real, why doubt that they could do what they did in his dreams. The only creatures who could do this were the Old Ones; Cenn was sure of it.

"You can put the spear down" the Old One said dryly. "I was not intending to be gored while talking to you."

"What were you intending?" Cenn asked. "And how did you know what I was thinking about?"

"I always know" the Old One said. "But now you must know what I am thinking."

The Old One moved with lightning speed and grabbed his head, and Cenn's mind exploded with images.

He saw a young boy, almost a man, draping a coat of black over a beautiful flower in a plant nursery well above the ground.

He saw an eagle flying high over the sea, with a dead kraken, dripping blood, dangling from its talon. The eagle was chasing a doe, sheltering three smaller animals in its bosom, the smallest flitting between several mammalian forms. The eagle had a face of a man, and in those eyes was a look Cenn would never forget, a look Cenn was sure had been on his own face several months ago, a look that may still decorate his face.

He saw a woman surrounded by ice, but on a farm in the North. A massive mountain of ice rose to her north, and the woman turned to it and smiled. But then she turned to the east, and began to cry as a young boy who looked like Cenn stared after another man, who refused to let go of two balls of fire.

Cenn saw a woman who was followed by a small lion.

He saw a man surrounded by molten fire with a chain of islands dangling from his neck.

He saw a bloody axe immersed in a pile of gold and draped by a curtain of silver.

Cenn saw a girl with bright red hair, a man surrounded by women who bore an eerie resemblance to the man, a host of crows flying north, a king without a crown, three dragons pouring fire down on an army of the undead, and a young direwolf tearing out the throat of the Nightking, while a doe, a trout, a falcon, a lion, and a sun were doing battle with the wights. Cenn felt a boiling fury because no flower banners were on the field of battle. Cenn saw three stags transform into lions, a lion transform into a direwolf, and two stags locking antlers, unable to untangle, falling from a cliff. He saw a dog dig its teeth into a mountain. And then Cenn saw himself, sailing away, into the unknown east, never to see Westeros again.

The vision ended as suddenly as it began. Cenn's mind reeled with new information, not only from the visions, but from the knowledge he had gained. Somehow, he now knew what a flower was, what a dragon was, what a crown was, what a dog was, what gold was, and quite a few other things.

"What was that?" Cenn asked the Old One.

"What you saw are the six who must be gathered to you if the Night King is going to be slowed."

"Slowed? What do you mean slowed? I want the Night King dead. I want him and all the Others destroyed. I want the dead to be put back to the rest in which they belong."

"You can kill the Night King, destroy the Others. But the power that animates them does not originate in Westeros. But you will do what you must, or else Westeros will be frozen over, and Cate and Alyse will have died in vain."

"They already died in vain. I am not going to do anything until you tell me how to destroy all of them."

"The boy in black, the woman surrounded by ice, the eagle, and the bloody axe will all be found north of the Wall. The woman with the lion and the man with the necklace will be found south of it. You will need them all, if Westeros is to survive."

"And the other visions?"

"What other visions?"

"I saw more than ten other visions, some more detailed than others."

"Then I know nothing about these. The Three-Eyed Raven only gave me the six. If there are more, they have come directly from the Old Gods, I know nothing of them."

"Then what am I supposed to do with them?"

"Use them, Dealmaker, use them to destroy the Night King and buy us all some time."


	8. Chapter 7

5 Months before the death of Jon Arryn

 **Stann**

Stann lay awake in the snow as Micah circled the camp on his late night watch. He clutched his knife tightly and waited for Micah to walk close to him.

This was a terrible plan, Stann knew that. There was no way he was going to subdue Micah with a small knife, let alone do it silently. Micah was bigger, stronger, and much better with his sword. And even if Stann were somehow to succeed in this mad escape, he would be alone beyond the Wall, with no friends, and every Wildling and man of the Watch seeking him. This was terrible plan. But Stann couldn't take one more day in the Watch.

For ten days they had traveled almost due north. Every day, Benjen had gotten more irritated. Even when they had arrived at a friendly Wildling's keep, Benjen had not been satisfied. The Wildling had told them Mance was gathering Wildlings in the Frostfangs. The Wildling had not known why Mance was gathering them, but there were not too many reasons why he would need one hundred thousand Wildlings. Mance had to be coming for the Wall. Stann was not going to be on the Wall when the Wildlings came.

But Benjen was not heading for the mountains. For some reason he was still headed north. The day before, they had reached the lonely hill they were now camped on. Three sides were near insurmountable, leaving only the south side for Stann's possible escape. There were not many scenarios that would be worse for Stann to attempt his escape.

The easiest way to escape would be to kill Micah, unhobble the horses, and scatter them, but that would doom all of the Rangers. Stann wanted out, but if possible he would avoid killing. Unfortunately, Stann did not see a way out that did not involve killing Micah. It most certainly did not help that the horses were tied at the far northern end of the hill, as far as possible from the only feasible way down by horseback.

Micah walked past again, and Stann rose. The one advantage he had was his ability to move silently. He crept away toward where the horses, and waited until Micah completed another round.

This was it. Up until now, Stann had not done anything he couldn't provide a rational explanation for. All he had done up until now was get up to make water. But as soon as he unhobbled this horse, he was a deserter from the Night's Watch.

Fear seized him. Stann stood, rooted in place. Too scared to continue in the Watch, too scared to leave it, what a man Stann was.

 _"But I'm not a man, am I?"_ Stann thought. " _I am only a scared boy. I was never a man of the Night's Watch."_

Stann unhobbled the horse and nudged it forward, toward the southern slope of the hill, and separated himself from it a little distance.

As Stann had hoped, Micah noticed the horse moving toward the camp. But in the darkness he hadn't noticed the small shadow that was Stann. He moved toward the horse, thinking someone had failed to hobble it well enough.

Micah ran his hands over the horse's snout, soothing it. Stann moved in from behind, holding his now drawn sword by the blade, and swung with all the force and momentum his small body could muster. The pommel of the sword connected with side of Micah's head with a crack that sounded far too loud to Stann.

Indeed it was. One of the other rangers darted awake and rolled to his feet as Stann dropped to the ground as quickly as he could.

The ranger scanned the area quickly and determined there was no threat. But he did notice the horse and walked over to it. When he was halfway to the horse it seemed to occur to him that the sentry was nowhere to be found. He drew his sword, and the sound seemed to alert another ranger.

Horrified, Stann began to move slowly back toward the line where the other horses were tethered. The first ranger had made it to the horse by now, but in the darkness he had not yet found Micah lying in the snow beside the horse.

Stann reached the standing line of horses and quickly began to unhobble them. As quickly as he could, he tied all of their reins to the pommel of a single horse.

By now all of the rangers were awake, and they knew he and Micah were missing. And second now, they would find Micah lying in the snow. Any second now, one of them would light a torch and it would all be over, Stann's only advantage negated.

Miraculously, neither of those things happened before Stann had finished tying the horses together. He mounted the lead horse, and hugged it as tightly as possible. Right as the first cries went out, which Stann assumed meant they had found Micah, Stann spurred his horses to a dead gallop.

The sudden charge of the horses caught the rangers by surprise. Most of them were able to get out of the way. Three or four went down screaming under thousands of pounds of horse flesh. Stann had no idea whether the unconscious Micah had been trampled or not.

Down the southern slope of the hill Stann went before wheeling the horses back around the hill and heading north. Stann couldn't head back to the Wall; he had to get as far from any member of the Watch as he could. He had to get north, farther than any ranging went, abandon his black cloak, and make a life for himself.

When Stann looped around, terror filled him. A single rider on the lone remaining horse was tearing down the hill after him. Stann had known someone would follow him. They couldn't let him get away with the horses.

Still, Stann galloped. He had to cover as much distance as possible. He had to get north of the hill before the lone rider overtook him. He pressed hard, dug his heels into the horse's side, screamed at it to run faster.

Stann had fewer than forty paces on the rider when he cleared the hill. Stann yanked on the knot on the pommel and it came free, exactly as Stann had designed it to. All of the horses scattered, and the rider behind Stann was forced to make a choice. If he continued to follow Stann, almost all of the horses would be lost and the rangers would be caught on foot far from the Wall, at the mercy of the Wildlings.

The rider continued after Stann, past where the horses had split. For many long seconds the rider stayed hot on his trail. The rider screamed in frustration, and Stann could have sworn he heard Benjen Stark yell his name. A knife whistled through the air, and buried itself in Stann's waist. It was all Stann could do to stay on the horse. But the rider veered off to hunt down the horses, and Stann galloped north into the Haunted Forest alone.


	9. Chapter 8

5 months before the Death of Jon Arryn

 **Alanna**

Alanna was cooking the noonday meal when three men of the Night's Watch entered. Three men of the Night's Watch showing up in Mole's Town was not all that unusual. What was strange was that these three were here in the middle of the day.

Whatever the three were up to was none of Alanna's concern, at least not today. Often the men of the Night's Watch came here looking for buried treasure. This was what they called Alanna and women like her. But Alanna was six months pregnant, and the men of the Night's Watch were not interested in her right now.

Not counting the child still growing in her belly, Alanna was the mother of just one boy, whom she had named Mot. Mot went by the surname Snow, though he had neither been born in the North, nor to a Northman. She had given Mot the surname to avoid attracting attention, not that anyone was looking for her.

Like her unborn child, Mot had no idea who his father was. Unlike the unborn child, Alanna had a pretty good guess as to the identity of Mot's father. The boy was a living reminder of the happiest she had ever been, before Alanna had become a harlot. He was also a reminder of her darkest day.

Almost as if her thoughts of Mot had summoned him, he came climbing down the ladder into the Mole Town brothel. When he reached the bottom of the ladder, he turned to see the three men in black who had just arrived. If looks could harm, the three men of the Night's Watch would be on flaying racks right now.

When Mot had been a young boy, he had wanted to be a Man of the Night's Watch. About a year ago, another boy of about Mot's age had come through Mole's Town bound for the Wall, and Mot had accompanied him. Within four days, Mot had been back, disgusted with them.

Alanna knew Mot had many flaws. For most of them, she blamed his father for what he had done to them. But one thing Mot always did was keep his word. And part of the Night's Watch oath involved fathering no children. Yet he knew many of them had bastards in Mole's Town. Many more would if the whores in Mole's Town were not creative when it came to contraception. Mot figured a man should keep his vow if he was willing to pledge his life and sacred honor.

The three men disappeared into the back rooms, oblivious to Mot's stare, and Alanna walked over to embrace her son. A boy of twelve with hair that looked to have been spun of gold, and eyes with just a hint of green, a far cry from his mother's black hair and dark eyes. He pulled her as tight as he dared, which wasn't very, considering the size of her belly. He, like most men, was very much afraid of harming a pregnant woman and treated her like she was made of glass.

"How was your trip?" she asked him when he released her. Mot had taken a hunting trip with a few of the other whoresons whose mothers did not need them to work for a few extra coppers. For better or worse Alanna was very good at what she did, and this was one of the reasons the owner let her stay on as the cook, even when she was making him very little money. He could not risk her plying her trade apart from him if he wanted to stay in business.

"We caught a few rabbits" he said without much enthusiasm. "Nothing we couldn't have done here, without going away for a few days."

"Well, if that's all you did, you must not be too tired to help your mother with the evening meal. There's an apron back behind the kitchen. And mind the kettle, else I throw you in it."

He smiled briefly before walking back into the kitchen and temporarily out of sight. Alanna lived for his smiles. The boy looked so much like his father. Every time he smiled, it brought Alanna back to a happier time. She would cut the heart out of anyone who took the smile away from him.

As the pair finished up preparing dinner for the denizens of the brothel before the late night rush, the three men of the Watch climbed back up the ladder and out into the town. Alanna did not know why they had come, but the brothel had thin walls and she knew these men had not come for the ordinary reasons. One of them turned and looked at her, right before he ascended up the ladder, and in his eyes was a look of pure hatred. The man climbed up the ladder without incident.

Alanna froze in place. There was nothing remarkable about that man from the Night's Watch. He was absolutely plain in every way. His hair was dark, of average length and cut. He was not good looking, nor was he ugly. He was not tall, nor was he short. She would have looked right past him, probably had before, but she knew she would never forget his face now. That look in his eyes had been too strong.

"The stew is almost ready, Mother" Mot said, interrupting her reverie. "Should I get some bowls to start dipping?"

"No, that won't be necessary. Just stack the bowls beside the kettle. The girls will come and get some when there is a break. If you dip it out, it will get cold faster."

"Yes, mother."

"Mot" she called again, thinking of his time at the Wall.

"Yes, mother?"

"Did you know any of the three men who were just here?"

"I was only at the Wall for half a week."

"Which is four days more than I've been there, Mot. Did you know any of them?"

"No, mother. What is this about?"

"I don't know. But I don't like the way he looked at me."

Mot chuckled as he walked to her side with a bowl of stew. "If you don't like the way men look at you, perhaps you should consider a different line of work." He took a bite of the stew, and then almost spit it back out. With visible effort, he swallowed the gruel. "But perhaps not as a cook."

She slapped his arm playfully, but she could not banish those eyes from her mind. The way the man had looked at her had unnerved Alanna to the very core. But perhaps what terrified her was not how he had looked at her, but where he had looked at her. The Brother of the Night's Watch had not looked at her breasts or her face. No, the man with death and malice in his stare had been looking at her stomach. Alanna knew, though she knew not how, that the Brother of the Night's Watch was after her babe.


	10. Chapter 9

5 Months before the Death of Jon Arryn

 **Stann**

It took all of Stann's energy to avoid falling from the black gelding he had stolen from the Night's Watch. He had named the horse Flight, and had cast all of his hopes of living to see a new day on the horse. Today was the eighth day since Stann had deserted the Watch on that hill, which by now was well south of where he was taking Flight.

Stann managed to pull the knife that was now his from its sheath on his hip, and rested it against the pommel of his saddle. Stann had pulled the knife from his own flesh, after it had buried itself in his hip during his desertion. The blade was castle forged steel, and could only have been Benjen Stark's blade. There certainly wasn't steel this good at Castle Black.

But even if Stann didn't know enough to tell castle-forged steel when he saw it, the blade had an inscription on it. _For Benjen_ , the blade said. Stann knew how much the blade must mean to the First Ranger, and he had a foolish daydream of returning it to the First Ranger.

But Stann was smart enough to know he would never see a member of the Night's Watch again. If a brother caught him, he would be executed as a traitor and a deserter.

This was if he lived long enough to worry about such a thing. Though he had removed the blade from his body, the wound Benjen inflicted, his parting gift to Stann, may very well end up doing Stann in. The wound was surrounded by a ring of red flesh, and it was hot to the touch. Stann knew next to nothing about healing or medicine, but he did know if he didn't come up with some solution, some cure, he would be dead within the fortnight.

Even if the wound didn't kill him directly, it was making it harder and harder for Stann to ride. And if Stann couldn't ride, he would be easy prey for the Wildlings who lived this far north.

So far, Stann had managed to outrun all four bands of Wildlings he had come across because they had not had horses. But even these brief encounters with the Free Folk were enough for Stann to know full well he did not want to be forced to fight one. The leader of one of the bands Stann had come across had been wearing a suit of armor made of human bones.

Five hours later, Stann fell from his horse. The horse was a well-trained steed; it stopped and stood in place as soon as the reins were dropped. Stann tried to rise, but the pain was too much. He could not get up, so he crawled through the snow to a tree trunk and propped himself up against it. From his new position, Stann could see that on the other side of his horse lay three corpses. Suddenly, this stop seemed much more ominous.

Stann lay back down against the tree trunk, and silently shouted out to the Seven, begging them to tell him what he had done to deserve this. Someone, or several someones, had to have died during his escape. That was the only explanation for why this was happening to him.

While Stann was lamenting his bad situation, the three corpses on the other side of Flight rose. Stann's bladder and bowels both burst in fear as he quickly tried to draw his sword and prop it up between himself and the walking corpses. One corpse carried a rudimentary spear, and the other two were unarmed, but they came toward Stann unafraid. They ignored Flight, coming straight for Stann instead.

Once they had gotten around the horse, Stann threw Benjen's knife. To his own surprise, the blade hit one of the corpses in the eye socket. The thing fell to the ground, but then rolled to its feet and continued its march toward Stann.

The blade in Stann's hands was shaking more than the branches of a sapling in a Stormlands hurricane. Stann was going to die here, divine justice for the carnage he had inflicting while deserting his Brothers. There was nothing else Stann could have done that would account for such a cruel fate.

A ball of light erupted from the line of trees behind Stann and took the lead corpse in the chest. The thing exploded in a shower of bones and blackened flesh. Two more balls of light dispatched the other two before a tiny person emerged from behind the tree and entered Stann's line of sight.

"You are lucky these three are the first wights to have found you this far North. You clearly have no idea how to deal with them." The person turned to look at him, and Stann realized immediately that this was no person. Though humanoid, its eyes glowed with the weight of an antiquity no human could ever achieve.

"You are a Chil-" he began, before being interrupted by a raised hand.

"You could not begin to understand what we call ourselves" it said in a voice far deeper than its size should have allowed. "But please do not show us such disrespect. If you have to call us something, the Wildlings of the Far North call us the Old Ones. This is the best and most accurate name you humans have come up with. Children is just so demeaning."

"I am sorry, Old One" said Stann hesitantly.

The Old One waved its hand and Stann felt the pain in his hip vanish. He ran his hands over the wound, and found nothing. Hesitantly, he stood.

"You are needed to the South" it said.

"To the South? I cannot go south."

"If you do not go South, the whole world will perish in a coming wave of ice. Do you understand? You either do what I say, or we all die. Every man, woman, and child of both our races will vanish from the face of Westeros. Do you understand this?"

"I think you've made a mistake. If you think I am somehow crucial to the salvation of the world, you have made a great mistake. I am just a boy from the Reach."

"If you go North, the Old One said, "all you will find is many more like these. And I cannot go with you. But if you go south, there will always be six people to whom you can entrust your life."

"What are you saying?"

"I am telling you that if you go North, Westeros, Essos, everywhere, everything that breathes will die. If you turn around there may still be time to change this fate."

"Will I live if I go south?"

"You will die if you go north."

"That is not what I asked."

"If you go North, the future is set. One will freeze to death between the forks, one will be beheaded in Winterfell, one will be hanged in Mole's Town, you will be killed by the Night King, one will be killed climbing the wall, one will be skewered by a mounted stag, and the Dealmaker will start a war he can't end, a war that will tear Westeros apart.

"If you head back South, I cannot guarantee these things will not happen anyway. But I cannot see them. The future may yet be changed."

"Old One, I know not what you want from me. I do not even know what you are talking about."

"It is beyond you" the Old One thundered. "Know this: if you continue North, or if you go East or West, you will die within the month. If you turn south, your future is not determined. If you go any of three directions, you have thirty days. If you go South, you could die tomorrow, or one hundred years from now."

The Old One did not walk away; it simply vanished when it stopped talking.

Stann knew not what had happened. He did not know what it had been talking about. But it had healed him. That was at least one reason to trust it.

But something else was also clear. To the Old One, Stann was expendable. The Old One cared not for him; it cared only for its war with the Wights. But it had healed Stann and saved him. This fact was inescapable.

Stann mounted Flight again. Stann surveyed the area around him in a broad circle. He was his own man, a free agent. He could go in any direction he chose. The choices were limitless. The choices were infinite. But in the end, there was really only one.


	11. Chapter 10

5 Months before the death of Jon Arryn

 **Hayma**

Sunlight reflected off the snow and ice in a dazzling array of light. Bright speckles floated across the vision of all who stood along the shelf of ice that formed the interior of the triangle, around which three separate armies had made camp. Hayma knew that if a messenger from Mance did not return today, many of those bright speckles would be red with freshly spilt blood.

At the northern point of the triangle camped four hundred warriors from one of the Ice River clans, a score of scores. Both men and women were among their ranks, and they were here to finish what they had started generations before: the subjugation of the Frozen Shore.

A huge factor in the military successes of the Ice River clans was the division between the two principle factions of the Frozen Shore: the Walrus clan and the Wolf clan. The Walrus clan was led by that oaf, the Great Walrus, and he was a fool indeed. Even when most of his clan had been overrun by cannibals from Ice River, he had still been just as interested in pursuing his war against the Wolf clan as his war against the cannibals. He had managed to round up one hundred and sixty warriors, an incredibly large number for these present days, an amazingly small number from days past.

The Ice River clans and the Walrus clan were camped a half mile apart, with cannibals to the north, and the fools to the south. A half mile from both camps, south of the cannibals and west of the oaf, camped the Wolf clan of the Frozen Shore.

The Wolf clan had mustered two hundred and fifty-seven warriors to the field of battle, a full two-thirds of the clan's entire manpower. Hayma figured the Great Walrus had brought an even larger percentage of his total manpower, the River clan a much smaller percentage.

Four months ago, Mance Rayder, who styled himself the King Beyond the Wall, had sent out messengers calling for the assembly of all able bodied warriors in order to take the Wall and get to the south of it before the White Walkers came. Hayma had never seen as White Walker, nor did she know anyone who had. But the folk of the Frozen Shore had long memories, and tales of the Long Night were still told as a ritual part of the winter solstice. There had not been a winter solstice since Hayma was a small girl but she remembered the tales of creatures that walked like men, but were encased in ice, with hearts frozen solid. The tales claimed they raised the dead, and Hayma believed the tales. She had never personally seen a dead man walk, but she knew those who had. The legends said the Ice River clans had originally become cannibals to keep the dead from rising again, but the lack of other sources of food along Ice River was a much more plausible explanation.

A cry went up from the northernmost camp, and Hayma watched as the clans from the north began to assemble for war. She saw the Great Walrus begin to assemble his men for battle on their walrus-bone chariots.

"The question" said a voice behind her, "is which do we attack first?"

"We attack neither" Hayma said, as she turned to face the chief of her clan, the White Wolf. Rumor had it that the clans to the northwest, beyond Ice River, west of the Frostfangs, between the forks, all took the names of the animals when they reached the age of fourteen. The Walrus clan did the same, but in the Wolf clan, only the chief took the silly name.

"Then what should we do?" the White Wolf asked, looking at her.

"We let them fight among themselves. If the Great Walrus looks to be winning, we go home. If the cannibals drive them from the field and start to advance, we attack them from the side."

"South of the Wall, they call that a flanking maneuver" the White Wolf said.

"Sounds like a uselessly complicated way of saying 'attack them from the side'"

"The southlanders are uselessly complicated."

The White Wolf surveyed the field of battle with his one eye, having lost the other in battle with a two-legged bear on an island to the south. "I would think you, of all people, would advocate supporting our sister-clan in their fight. Especially if it could soon be our fight."

"I would have once" Hayma said, thinking back to her late husband, who had been a member of Clan Walrus. "But if the Great Walrus dies, well, that is naught but gain."

"Your great hatred is justified, but perhaps it blinds you."

"You are the one who lost an eye."

"Yet I am the one who clearly sees, it would seem. The Walrus clan has no chance of winning on their own, but you would have me let them fight and die. Of the two, they are certainly much less dangerous to our survival."

"This fight will not be as one sided as you seem to think; the Walrus clan has their chariots."

"They will still lose."

"Yes, but if enough of the cannibals die, they won't advance. That is what our goal should be today: prevent them from advancing."

"I'm sorry, Hayma, but the decision has been made. We are going to help them." The White Wolf's eyes hardened as he looked at her. "Are you going to obey me?"

"They're not worth dying over. There is no reason for us to fight for them, with them, or alongside them. They would never do the same to us."

"I see through you, Hayma. I know that when you say they, you mean the Great Walrus. And I agree; he should be left naked on shelf of ice next to a leopard seal's feeding hole. He deserves whatever the Ice River clans have in store for him. But his wife doesn't. And his children don't. And most of those men and women over there, most of their husbands and wives, and none of their children deserve what will happen if we lose.

"And besides, was it not you who told me: family before village, village before pack, pack before clan, clan before people, people before outsiders, outsiders before self? The Walrus clan is a part of our people, and the Ice River clans are outsiders. And those outsiders will be endangering our clan if the Walrus clan loses. So you are putting our clan, our pack, and our village in danger for your own selfish reasons."

The accusation stung, and Hayma was shocked by his stubbornness. She had always been able to make him see reason before. "Please," she whispered, "don't do this."

He struck her then. His fist struck the side of her head with his full body weight and momentum behind it. Hayma dropped, dazed. She had not expected the blow, but it had not been unwarranted. She had challenged his leadership, and he had answered. He had exhausted every other means of dealing with her, and Hayma had left him with no other recompense.

But the pain and the indignation of being dropped with a single blow overwhelmed Hayma's good sense. She had always been impulsive, and it had always worked out in her favor.

She unsheathed her small bone knife beneath her as subtly as she could before leaping to her feet and launching herself at the White Wolf.

He caught her by the wrist with one hand while the other clasped the back of her head, as he yanked her forward and put his knee in her gut. A second knee took her in the gut again, and he yanked back on her head before landing another punch to the side of her head.

Hayma tried to rise, but the White Wolf landed a solid kick to her ribs, and then two more to her head.

"Hayma," he said, when he had finished subduing her, "you have attacked your clan chief. You have betrayed us all. I am banishing you from the Frozen Shore. If I ever see your face again, I will kill you."

He turned and began to walk away from her.

"Cairn" she called, using the name from when his father had been the White Wolf. He stopped moving, but he did not turn around, lest he see her face. He was now honor bound by his vow to kill her, should he see her.

"I can't take back this order, Hayma, nor do I want to. You are banished."

"I know you can't take it back. You are already a weak and indecisive leader, and to change your mind or soften my sentence would only make it more painfully obvious. But if it is worth anything, I am sorry. I should not have attacked you without issuing a challenge. It was shameful and should never have happened, and I am sorry.

"But if there is still any place in your heart for me, may I ask for just one final favor? In my tent, there is a carved wooden wolf. My husband made it for my boy, and it is all I have left of either of them. May I please retrieve it? I will go, I swear to you on my memories of them, I will go if you just let me have this one trinket."

"I will have someone bring it to you" he said, before walking away, into the camp.

She had not been waiting long when a fourth party arrived to the field of battle, coming from the east. The party was led by a giant man with an equally giant red beard. The fame of Tormund Giantsbane preceded him, and Hayma recognized him on sight. Tormund was from Mance, and he was here to broker a peace. Hayma knew he would succeed; Mance always did.

But as much as she had been looking forward to this moment not too long ago, the moment had come too late. True, it had stopped the battle before it was ever joined. But Hayma was now alone, without village, pack, or clan. Mance and his war were all that was left, because Hayma was now completely alone.


	12. Chapter 11

4 Months before the death of Jon Arryn

 **Abel**

Abel sat alone in the bar that doubled as the Barrowton brothel and thought for the millionth time that night how things in Barrowton would be different if he were in charge.

First of all, no whore in the city would ever be without work. Abel couldn't afford their kind, and these were even the lowest of the low; these were the women many men would pay to have their clothes kept on. Yet even these Abel lusted after, because it was something more than a quick grope as a serving maid passed by his table. The serving maids had learned months ago not to walk anywhere near where Abel was sitting, except for the unlucky winch who happened to be serving him that night. Even the maids, the primary draw for many inns, what made one inn better than another, were below Abel's standards. But his coin only stretched so far.

This led Abel to his second point, the second thing he would change if he were in charge. If Abel were the lord of Barrowton, every person who worked for him would be compensated more than handsomely. Abel was Lord Dustin's personal smith; he made and mended swords, armor, arrowheads, and more mundane things like horseshoes and door handles. Abel could work every metal from tin to steel to silver to gold. He could make jewelry for the ladies and weapons for the lords. He was the best smith north of King's Landing, and his work was better than nine out of every ten smiths in or south of King's Landing as well. Put simply, Abel was the best Lord Dustin was ever going to find, but Abel was paid like a boy from Flea Bottom would be to catch a pigeon for dinner. No, if Abel were a lord, every person in his employ would live like a king.

The thought of Flea Bottom brought Abel back to his early years, when his dream had been to forge steel for a Targaryen on the Iron Throne. Abel had been born in King's Landing to a poor family, but they had never been Flea Bottom poor. From the time he was born, Abel's parents had put away money to pay for his apprenticeship, but he had still been seventeen before there was enough money.

But the apprenticeship had been well worth it. Abel had managed to open his own shop some years later, and had eventually be called upon by a lord of the North to be a personal smith. Agreeing to take the position was the worst mistake Able had ever made.

His position had made Abel one of the most disliked people in Barrowton. The smallfolk were not interested in interacting with him because they viewed him as another distant noble, at best ignorant of their plight, at worst, indifferent to it. But because his privileged position did not match up with his pay, Abel didn't have the gold to command the respect of the smallfolk or the fellowship of the nobility, artisans, or other merchants.

This led Abel to the third thing he would change if he were the lord: not a single person in his charge would ever feel their problems were unimportant to him. Abel considered himself to be a realist. He knew that he could not solve every problem, though he was sure he would do better than Lord Dustin. But if he were lord of Barrowton, no peasant or merchant or servant would think their lord was indifferent to their well-being.

Abel would also provide the poorest with alms, and would pay artisans and merchants to take apprentices. Abel himself knew from experience how someone who many thought had no chance to ever be anything but a beggar could find a craft and be successful.

Abel drained the last of his ale, and rose from the table, tossing a few coins down to pay for his ale. He walked out of the inn and turned to his right, back toward his home. The night air would probably have been cool and refreshing to a normal person, but to Abel, who spent most of time in the intense fires of the forge, the air was quite cold, and he threw his wolfskin cloak over his shoulders. After taking a few steps, he turned and looked back at the castle where Lord Dustin lived. Abel thought of all Lord Dustin had done, his complete and utter disregard for those less fortunate than himself.

Abel decided he would be a lord someday. Someday, he would have his own keep, his own land, where everyone he was in charge of would prosper. No one under him would be afraid of him, but everyone who threatened his smallfolk would be destroyed. The smallfolk would rally to his banners, and any lord who dared to threaten Abel and his lands would suffer a face worse than that of Castamere.

Most would not dare cast their dreams as high as Abel. But Abel had never failed a goal before. Everything Abel had ever set out to do he had accomplished through luck, hard work, and determination.

But this was something new, and becoming a lord would have new challenges involved that Abel had never had to anticipate or prepare for before. Able had gotten where he was because of his skill working steel. This new task would require making connections. He would need the goodwill of those who were already in power, need to learn to manipulate people so they could not see what he really wanted. He would have to learn to play the game he hated. Abel would have to make nice with people like Lord Dustin.

But once he did, once Abel was able to gain what it was he wanted, he would be the best lord in the history of Westeros. And who could tell, perhaps one day the Iron Throne would be his seat?


	13. Chapter 12

4 Months before the death of Jon Arryn

 **The Eagle**

The Eagle lay prone on a lip overlooking a narrow valley in the Frostfangs, much farther to the North than the Eagle had ever been before. Through the valley marched well over one hundred Thenns.

The Eagle guessed they were headed to join Mance, which was another problem for him to sort through.

First, the Thenns outnumbered his small band by at least a factor of four. This numerical advantage could be negated by hitting them in the valley, but then his band would be at the mercy of the metal weapons the Thenns carried. As the only people among the Free Folk who had retained a working knowledge of metallurgy, the Thenns were equipped with armor made of interlocking bronze discs, and carried axes made of the metal as well. A fight in an enclosed space favored the Thenns as well. But perhaps the biggest obstacle was that the Thenns were headed to Mance. If Mance had enough support among the various clans to openly call himself the King Beyond the Wall, then the Eagle was worried what crossing Mance might mean for his people, back between the forks.

The Eagle saw the Hare dart across a low point and slide in next to him, luckily without alerting any of the Thenns. The man paused to catch his breath from the jaunt before speaking.

"Let me take a shot at the Magnar" he said. "I can kill him without them even knowing who did it. We can get away and we won't have to fight. None of ours have to die."

"We should just leave" the Eagle replied. "We should leave this band alone and go and hit the Valley of Thenn. There have to be some warriors left there for us to fight."

"You'd let the Magnar walk right through this valley?" the Hare asked, incredulously.

"I would. If we attack him right now, we will gain nothing. We will all die."

The Hare looked as if he wanted to protest, but acceptance slowly filled his face and he nodded. "Spread the word" the Eagle told him. "We're pulling back."

The Hare darted away from him and the Eagle began to move in the other direction, to gather the members of the group placed farther to the north. But a loud shout behind him drew the Eagle's attention back to the south, toward the far end of the valley. Somehow, for some reason, the ground underneath his son, the Wolf, had collapsed, and the Wolf had fallen thirty feet into the valley.

The deep snow drifts at the floor of the valley more or less broke his fall, and the Wolf appeared a little dazed, but physically unharmed when he rose. But the Wolf now stood alone at the head of the column of Thenns.

The Eagle darted toward the front of the column as the first Thenns reached his son. The group wasn't immediately hostile, but the situation in the valley was clearly tense. If his son had a physical body to match his name, the fur on his neck would have been standing erect. The Eagle could tell, as he watched his son back away from the Thenns, something had gone wrong.

One swung his axe at the Wolf, an attack the Wolf parried with the shaft of his spear. The haft deflected the axe, but was rent in two by the force of the impact. Unfazed, the Wolf shoved the spearhead into the neck of the man attacking him, before spinning around to engage the next man. He threw the shattered lower end of the shaft away and drew his knife as more and more Thenn's began to surround him.

Seeing this, the Eagle reached the ledge overlooking his son and did not even slow down, leaping from the ridge into the valley below. He temporarily felt as if he were flying, before the Eagle buried his spear in one Thenn, and his talon in another. He had landed on the second Thenn, whose corpse combined with the snow to cushion the Eagle's fall.

Abandoning his bone spear, the Eagle grabbed the fallen Thenn's axe and began laying into those around him. He buried the axe in the neck of the first man to engage him, and severed the arm of a second, just below the elbow. Ducking under the swing of a third assailant, the Eagle buried his talon in between the links of the Thenn's armor. The Eagle didn't even take note of the higher and lighter death moan that gave away a woman, as he barely jumped back in time to avoid having his skull split in half.

Two more Thenns attacked him furiously, and it was all the Eagle could do to backpedal and keep the blades from sinking into him. Launching himself backward, he tripped over the body of one of the men he had slain earlier, and the assailant on the left moved in for the final decapitating blow.

Before it could land, a bone arrow took the Eagle's attacker in the eye and a series of loud crunches and screams indicated reinforcements from his warriors on top of the ledge.

The sounds distracted his remaining assailant long enough for the Eagle to slip his knife out of its sheath at his waist and flick it at the Thenn. The knife only grazed his attacker, but it slowed the Thenn enough to allow the Eagle to roll out from underneath the impending axe blow. The Eagle's hand clasped the haft of the axe formerly belonging to the attacker on his left and threw it at his remaining foe. This time, the blade struck home, and the Eagle had a momentary reprieve.

The Eagle rose to see scores of Thenns go down in the initial attack, as they were caught by surprise and pressed together, unable to even raise their weapons to defend themselves in the tight walls of the valley.

He watched his sons, the Wolf and the Raven, finish off the last few remaining Thenns behind the wall of warriors from between the forks.

The Eagle didn't know if Thenns finally got the troops in the rear to back up and give those in the front space, or if his warriors had thinned the ranks enough that there was now room to work the axes, but whatever the cause, the Thenns began their counter-attack.

The initial charge got the Thenns nowhere; the first wave of attackers, almost to the man, ended up with spears in their heads. But the second wave pushed through and the Eagle heard several spears snapping when the pressure on the spear was too great.

Once the two sides closed in together, the fight was all but over.

"Run!" the Eagle roared at those under his command.

It was a sloppy, gory mess, but a significant portion of the warriors the Eagle had brought to the fight managed to disengage from the pressing Thenns and flee further south, away from them. The only advantage his people had had coming into this fight was their speed, as the heavy metal armor of the Thenns slowed them down. It didn't take long for the warriors from between the forks to outpace the Thenns.

"How many did we lose?" the Eagle asked the Stag as the two began to lead the party back to their village.

"A dozen" the Stag responded. "When the Wolf fell, I thought it sure to spell doom for our mission. But really, had he not fallen, we would not have achieved such a great victory."

"Great victory?" the Eagle asked. "What great victory? The Magnar still lives, and over a dozen of ours are no more."

"Have you not heard the count?" the Stag asked. "We slew close to one hundred of them. The Thenn will remember this day for generations."

"I hope not" the Eagle said. "I hope they get over the Wall and in their ecstasy forget this ever happened. We made a powerful enemy this day. We spit in the face of the Thenns."

"I thought this was what you wanted?" the Stag questioned. "Did you not mean to engage the Thenns and take revenge for their raid on our village?"

"I hadn't anticipated there being survivors to remember that it was the people from between the forks who did this to them. Now they know it was us, and they will come for us."

"And we will be ready for them."

"No one is ready for them. No one stands and fights the Thenns. We need to move. Either that, or join Mance and hope he'll protect us."

"I've never heard of victory emasculating a man" the Stag said.

"Our victory dissipated as soon as a single Thenn left the ambush alive. No, we lost today. And when the Thenns come for us, we will know just how badly we failed."


	14. Chapter 13

4 Months before the death of Jon Arryn

 **Stann**

Stann was no longer sure how long he had been north of the Wall. It had taken the ranging ten days to get from the Wall to the hill where he had deserted. From there, Stann had traveled further north for eight days by himself, before the Old One had healed him and sent him headed back to the south. That had been somewhere in the vicinity of three weeks ago, and he was still roughly five days from the Wall.

In that time, Stann had discerned three reasons to explain why his return trip to the Wall would take more than a week longer than his journey from the Wall. First, there had been a snow storm a few days past, which had deepened the snow and slowed Flight's pace. Second, Old One or no Old One, Stann was not relishing the thought of arriving at the Wall after what he had done. He was not dragging his feet, but Stann was certainly not pushing to get to the Wall faster.

This naturally led into the third reason Stann's return journey was taking so much longer than his northward one: when Stann had been going north, he had been in a hurry. After Stann's escape, he had pushed Flight as hard as he could without killing the horse. In those eight days, Stann had been moving almost twice as fast as the ranging had been. On the return, Stann was moving south at the same pace Benjen had set headed north.

Not only was Stann following Benjen's example by emulating his speed of travel, Stann was also following the First Ranger's path back to the Wall. There were no physical signs to follow, because it had been days since the Rangers had come through here, a month since Stann had traveled through this part of the Haunted Forest. But if Stann remembered correctly, and Stann was gambling much that he did, the friendly keep at which the ranging had stayed should appear in a mile or two.

When the ranging had stayed with Craster on the way north, he had only allowed them a place to stay grudgingly. Craster knew better than to deny Benjen Stark food and shelter if he wanted to retain his status as a friend of the Watch.

Whatever the man's status, Stann did not trust him. No man had as many daughters as Craster did without there being sons as well. Seeing as how there were no men except Craster in his holding, Stann knew Craster must do something to the males. He didn't know what Craster did, but it was reason enough for Stann to stay away.

Stann's uneasiness led him to angle Flight's path a little more to the west. Up to this point, Stann had been headed due south, as best he could tell. By due south, Stann meant he was headed more south than east or west. Perhaps this too was a reason his journey was taking longer than it should have.

Sudden sounds from the woods to the left startled Stann, who gripped the pommel of his sword tightly. He slid the blade part way from its sheath, barring steel, but did not fully draw the weapon.

What had at first been staccato sounds soon turned into a long, slow, slow rustling of leaves and branches punctuated by the sound of twigs being snapped underfoot. Whatever was making this noise was no animal.

Nervous, Stann wheeled Flight into a quarter-turn and began guiding him to the northwest, the direction exactly opposite of where the sound was coming from, as best Stann could tell. He didn't push Flight into a gallop, lest the significant amount of noise alert the other to Stann's presence.

One thing Stann had not heard from whoever was behind him was the sound of voices. For this reason, Stann guessed there was only one person in the forest. Because of the sheer amount of noise being made, Stann guessed it wasn't an Old One or a White Walker either. This made the source of the noise either a Wildling or a Wight. A Wight could be avoided or outrun, and a Wildling could be chased off by a mounted member of the Night's Watch, assuming, of course, that Stann would not lose his nerve. Stann was a lot of things, and brave was not one of them.

Suddenly, the rustling increased in speed and intensity. Whatever was causing the noise had accelerated, and was heading directly toward Stann.

 _"They must have found Flight's tracks in the snow"_ Stann thought as he brought the horse to a gallop.

Quickly, he left the rustling back in the distance. But Stann didn't get very far before he saw something large race toward him from the corner of his eye before the world went dark.

* * *

Stann awoke tied to a pole with a very old and incredibly ugly man standing over him. Stann guessed the man had once been powerfully built, but age had weakened his frame, and the cold had apparently taken one of his ears. He wore a smile on his face that made Stann think of everything evil in the world. This impression was heightened by the cadre of scared and mistreated women standing behind him.

"What to do with a deserter from the Night's Watch?" the man mused to himself as he paced back and forth. "There are many people who would love to get their hands on you.

"For starters, old Benjen would love to have you back. Crows that desert to Mance always cause the Night's Watch so much grief. I may not know anything about the last three, but I do have you. But then, Mance would love to have you too. His Weeper is good at making dainty little Crows squawk all of their secrets, and Mance could certainly use some extra information about the Watch.

"And then, of course, the Night King wants you too, for some reason. I can't imagine why.

"But no matter who I give you to, it will take time for them to come and collect, and in the meanwhile you'll be sitting in my hold taking up my space and eating my food. Winter _is_ coming, you know. Maybe I should just kill you and be done with it.

"What do you say, little Crow? What should I do with you?"

"The Night's King wants me?" Stann asked, confused and more than slightly terrified.

"The Night King? You actually want the Night King?" Craster laughed. Stann realized in horror that Craster had taken his question as a suggestion. "You've got bigger stones than I would have guessed. But the problem is, if I give you to the Night King, I won't get anything I don't already have. But if I gift you to someone else I can get something else, as long as the Night King doesn't find out. What do you think of that?"

Stann was silent, mind reeling.

Craster rewarded Stann's silence with a solid kick to the ribs.

"I asked what you thought of that?"

"I want Mance" Stann said quickly. He hoped it might take long enough for Mance to come retrieve him that the Old One would appear and rescue him.

"You want Mance, huh?" Craster questioned. Stann was rewarded for his honesty with another kick to the gut. "You conniving little bastard" he snickered. "You want the Night King to come find you here." Stann's protestation of innocence earned him a third kick. This time, Stann heard something crack. "I'm going to send you back to the Watch."

The man waddled over to one of his younger wives, whom he grabbed by the hair and dragged back over to where Stann was tied.

"You are going to go to the Wall and tell the Watch we have one of theirs. If you are not back in three weeks, I am going to start killing off your sisters, then your mother, then your daughters. Every day you're not back after three weeks, someone is going to die. Do you understand?"

She nodded furiously.

"Good" he said. "Now get!" Craster gave his daughter a good kick to get her on her way.

"Now you" he said, turning back to Stann, "as long as you're here, you are going to be quiet, cooperative, and you are going to keep your eyes off my wives." The last part came out as a growl. "Do you understand?"

"Yes" Stann said meekly.

The next kick caught Stann in the chin, and the world again faded to black.


	15. Chapter 14

4 Months before the Death of Jon Arryn

 **Cenn**

It had been eight months since Cenn had left his home on his southward trek. Since he had left home, Cenn had learned so much about the world south of his home that challenged everything Cenn had ever believed. Cenn knew now how isolated his family and his people had been from the rest of humanity. Cenn knew now how false their beliefs about their reason for existence were, as well as their notion of keeping the world safe from the Walkers. Cenn knew now that the Old Ones were real. And today, Cenn had learned his father had been wrong about the Wall.

The massive structure standing before him was no thirty foot barrier with a size vastly exaggerated by legend and word-of-mouth. Before Cenn was a wall of ice that stood over three hundred feet in height. Cenn knew now his plans would have to change.

Before Cenn now was an obstacle beyond which he could not see. He knew nothing about what was waiting for him on the other side of the Wall. Cenn was not thrilled about climbing over the Wall without knowing what he could expect when he got to the other side.

"It is not yet time for you to cross" a voice said behind Cenn. Cenn spun, spear arcing over his head, to leave a shallow cut on the cheek of the same Old One who had startled him a month prior.

The Old One did not flinch, nor did it seem particularly perturbed by the small wound Cenn had inflicted.

"You have to stop appearing behind me" Cenn said. "Next time, I am going to take your head off."

"You need to listen to me" the Old One said, "and then I will stop appearing behind you."

"I will listen to you" Cenn began, "when you start telling me what to do instead of planting a series of incoherent visions in my head and expecting me to figure it out on my own."

"I told you that you would find four of those necessary here beyond the Wall, and two more south of it. This is all that I can tell you."

"All you can tell me? As in, you know more, but you will tell me nothing more. What good does that do anyone?"

"If you only knew, Dealmaker. This fight has been fought before, by your ancestors, and their ancestors, and their ancestors before them."

"What is that supposed to mean? And why do you keep calling me 'Dealmaker'? And how is 'north of the Wall' supposed to help me find a boy in black, a woman in ice, a bloody axe, and an eagle? Could you be any less specific?"

"If you take not but one step in the right direction, will the next not become clear?" the Old One asked.

"No" Cenn shouted in frustration. "I could take a step in a hundred different directions at this very moment and none of them are going to seem any more in the right direction than any other if you do not tell me what I am looking for!"

"If you keep shouting, you are going to attract the Night's Watch" the Old One observed dryly.

"Maybe I want to attract the Watch. Is that where the boy in black is?"

"No" the Old One said. "It is not yet time for you to confront the Watch."

"Let me get this straight: You not only want me to find the people I'm supposed to gather, but you give me visions that don't even tell me where to look? Where would I look for a boy in black, except in the Night's Watch? It seems the most likely place by far, unless my father was wrong about this too, and the Wall is guarded by literal crows. Either way, the boy's not here, and you know full well where he is, but you still won't tell me."

"He is north of the Wall" the Old One said simply.

Cenn, quickly tiring of the Old One's company, slung his spear over his shoulder in the sling he had made for it, drew two of his four obsidian daggers, and turned to face the Wall.

"For some reason it seems incredibly important to you that I don't go over this Wall right yet" he said over his shoulder. "It also seems to be important to you that I survive, though you won't tell me why. But here's the thing: I want to go over the Wall and you have not given me a good reason not to. So unless you give me two concrete answers about what I should be doing instead of these vague warnings, I am going to climb this thing. So either I am going to go over the Wall, which you seem to think would be bad, or I am going to fall off the Wall and die, which we both agree would be bad. The only way to stop me is to tell me what you want."

Cenn began climbing the mammoth wall of ice, digging his blades into the ice and pulling himself up. By the time he was a dozen feet off the ground, Cenn knew he was going to have to rethink his strategy. He would be too tired to continue long before he ever reached the halfway point of the climb.

But the Old One would have to have known this too. Cenn was sure the Old One knew Cenn would not make it. And so Cenn kept climbing, hoping the Old One was more concerned about Cenn's life than it was about keeping its secrets.

Cenn had made it thirty-five feet off the ground before the Old One finally broke.

"I can't tell you where to go next. But I can show you."

"You'll take me to where I need to go?" Cenn asked.

"No, but I can show your mind's eye."

"Not good enough" Cenn answered as he pulled himself up another three feet. "I need the next two specific steps."

"I can't do that" insisted the Old One.

"I tire of fighting with you" Cenn said. "If you want me to come down, I need to know the next three steps you would take if you were me. This is the last chance I'm giving you."

Cenn had climbed another dozen feet before the Old One finally spoke.

"If I were you I would first kill Craster, then meet up with Mance, then head up to the land between the forks."

Though Cenn was less than satisfied, he began to climb down. "Why?" he asked.

"Why was not part of the deal" the Old One said harshly.

"Why is it you so desperately need my help, but you're so determined to be less than helpful?" Cenn asked.

"Because I can tell you only what I know, and the Three-Eyed Raven does not tell me everything he sees."

"So why doesn't the Three-Eyed Raven help me?"

"Because the Three-Eyed Raven does not know everything. The Night King is very powerful, and the Night King obscures the Raven's vision."

"So do you know why you chose three things you did, or were just supposed to tell me to do them?"

"Craster gives his sons to the Walkers; Mance can help you get over the Wall, and the Eagle lives between the forks."

Cenn finally reached the ground, but before he could respond to the Old One, it grabbed his head. Cenn saw in his mind eye the way he must travel if he were to go to Craster's home. When the vision disappeared, the Old One was gone.

 _"The next time I see that Old One, I really am going to cut his head off"_ Cenn thought. But he began his trek toward where the Old One had directed him. As much as he distrusted the Old One, it was more to go on than Cenn had now. And anyone who sacrificed children to the Others deserved to die. That was simply an undeniable fact. Once Craster was dead, Cenn would once again consider his options. But Craster came first.


	16. Chapter 15

4 Months before the Death of Jon Arryn

 **Dagar**

Dagar walked along the dock where the ship he had captained for the last two months was moored. The _Venture_ , a foolish name for a ship, had returned to Harlaw the night before, and Dagar's crew was now scattered throughout Myrekeep, another foolish name.

House Myre, which apparently did not have a history of creativity, did have a history of opposing the Harlaws. The two sides had warred all through antiquity for the right to claim kingship, later lordship, over the island of Harlaw. Though House Myre was now a vassal of House Harlaw, Dagar hoped the ancient animosity would slow the awareness of his return.

Sooner or later it would become common knowledge that Dagar had returned, and that he had killed a Harlaw on the voyage. But while he still could, Dagar was going to enjoy his time ashore. More importantly, he was going to get used to being ashore again.

Dagar, like all true Ironborn, was more at home on a ship than on land. But few Ironborn could claim to have spent nearly six months aboard a ship without a single moment ashore. Even now, Dagar could feel the land rocking below him as his sea legs baffled themselves with the stillness of solid land. His body had been trained to adapt to the rocking of the ship, and now that there was no rocking, it would have to readapt. Dagar staggered a few steps as his sea legs overcorrected and he nearly lost his balance. Dagar knew his stagger would pass in time, as he relearned the art of walking on the shore. A small part of his brain suggested Dagar's stagger would pass in time as he relearned what it was like to be sober.

By now the moon was two-thirds of the way across the sky, which indicated to Dagar that it had been a full day and more since he had docked the _Venture_. But at the present, he remembered none of what had happened that day, and most likely never would. On the upside, none of his crew would remember yesterday either. When the voyage was done, the men had fun. Half had gone straight to the brothel after docking, and the other half had gone straight to the tavern. At midday, the two groups had switched.

Dagar boarded his ship and staggered to the captain's quarters. Being back aboard the ship didn't help his stagger, which proved drink the culprit of his clumsiness. He staggered to the captain's quarters at the rear of the ship, where he had been staying to save himself some coin. More importantly, Dagar was not going to let someone take his ship without paying the iron price. He was worried someone might try and take it from him without paying.

The door closed behind Dagar, but he had consumed enough alcohol to not immediately comprehend the strangeness of that. When Dagar's mind finally recognized he was not alone in the room, he spun around as fast as his drunken legs could move. He spun just fast enough that the knife blade meant to pierce his heart from behind plunged into his shoulder instead. Dagar roared in pain and stumbled to his bed, turning to face three assailants.

The assailants fanned out and tried to press him from three sides, but Dagar was not going to let them trap him. He moved to the man on his left and kicked him in the chest, driving the attacker into the wall of the captain's quarters. He spun to the right, but lost his balance and fell to one knee as his head began to spin. His drunken stumble saved Dagar's life, as he ducked below the swipe of a knife by the second assailant. Too drunk to realize his luck, Dagar pummeled the attacker twice in the cock, and then struck the doubled-over assassin in the throat.

Dagar launched himself into the third, lowering his shoulder with the intent to barrel into the attacker and drive the wind out of him. But Dagar tripped over the man he had just dropped and lost much of his momentum and speed, giving the man time to react, as the last attacker drove his knife between Dagar's ribs. The attacker did not have the momentum on the strike to cause any serious damage to Dagar, but as Dagar slammed his opponent into the back wall, his own momentum drove the knife in to the hilt. He stumbled back as another knife entered his back and he fell to knees. The man who attacked him from behind drove his knife in one last time, before Dagar rolled onto his back.

All three were now standing again and they stood at Dagar's feet.

"Who were you, to think you could kill a Harlaw and get away with it?" one asked. "You thought we wouldn't come after you? We're going to send you to meet the Drowned God."

"How like little lordlings, to ambush a drunk opponent, three against one" Dagar spat. "I paid the iron price for my command. What do you hope to gain from this, my ship? You're doing this because the last captain of this ship wasn't man enough to hold onto it. You Harlaws are all the same: salt wives masquerading as Ironborn."

Suddenly, Dagmar burst into the room, a hand-ax in each hand. Dagmar laid into his three opponents, and none of the salt wives who thought they could lead Ironborn stood a chance before a real Ironborn warrior. Living up to his name, soon Harlaw blood and gore coated the hands and weapons of Dagmar Redsteel.

Stepping over the three corpses, Dagmar stood over Dagar.

"You know, Dagar, I always did want to command my own ship. Here I have a chance: kill the Captain, pay the iron price, take my ship."

"At least you want the ship" Dagar responded. "Kill me and take it already, so I don't have to keep listening to people tell me why they want to kill me. What ever happened to killing men for the sake of killing men?"

"I am not going to kill you while you're drunk, suffering from multiple stab wounds, and have such grandiose plans for the ship. You promised to take me somewhere the Ironborn have never sailed before. I am going to hold you to that, Dagar."

Dagmar turned to leave, but stopped briefly. "You are going to want to roll over" he said over his shoulder, "or else you will suffocate on your own vomit." When he finished, Dagmar left Dagar, who slowly slipped into his own confused, haphazard, drunken dreams.


	17. Chapter 16

4 Months before the death of Jon Arryn

 **Cenn**

Cenn had moved warily the last four days, always keeping a tight grip on his spear. He had been following the path the Old One had sent him on, but Cenn did not trust the Old One, and so he kept himself alert, ready to strike at a moment's notice.

However, Cenn had been forced to move quickly, as well as warily. There was a patrol of men from the Night's Watch coming up from the Wall. They had stayed, as best Cenn could tell, directly on course for the keep the Old One had sent Cenn to retrieve the boy from. They were mounted on horses, creatures known only to Cenn through the visons the Old Ones had given him, but they moved slowly. Cenn knew, through the suspect magic of this Three-Eyed Raven, men on horses should be able to move faster than he could on foot, but for some reason he had managed to outpace them. Maybe they were even more wary than he was about traversing the Haunted Forest, as he had learned to call it from his visions of fighting the Others. Or perhaps this was another way the magic of the Three-Eyed Raven was at work at the world. Whatever the reason was, Cenn was thankful for it. The Old One said Cenn would need this boy to kill the Night King. Even though Cenn did not trust the Old One, he would gamble everything for a chance to kill that monster.

Smoke from a cooking fire rose a little way to the north, bringing Cenn's mind back to a different monster. Cenn desperately wished he had more information to go on than the Old One's word, but if the man who was doing the cooking was really doing what it was claimed he did, Cenn would put him down with a knife in his gut.

It was not long before Cenn could see beyond the forest, through the sparse trees at its edge, and into the home of this Craster. He could not yet see the man, but upon seeing the keep Cenn instantly had a twofold recollection of the visions he had been tormented with. He noticed the women, bustling around the camp cooking, cleaning, and tending to the animals. They were the women Cenn had seen in his vison, the ones who all looked eerily similar to the man he had seen. And in the middle of the compound, the boy in black, whom Cenn had seen drape his cloak around the shoulders of a flower in plant nursery in the sky, was tied to a post. Dried blood stained his coat and his face, and one side of his chest looked to have caved in; the boy was in desperate need of a healer.

Cenn advanced to the last tree thick enough to hide behind, and he waited until he saw the ugliest man he had ever seen come wandering out of the big house in the center of the compound, dragging a scantily clad girl Cenn would have guessed to be no more than fifteen out of the house.

The man grabbed her by the throat and began to squeeze, and the girl face began to turn colors. He screamed something at her, but Cenn could not make out what it was over the sound of his own blood beginning to boil. This girl was of wide girth, mousy brown hair, and of large bust; in short, she looked nothing like Alyse. Yet all Cenn could think of was his daughter, and the image before transformed before him from a man choking some strange young woman, to the Other coming for Alyse.

Eventually, the ugly old man let go of the girl, and backhanded her with a might slap, but Cenn had already burst from cover of the tree line with one goal in mind.

Craster didn't see Cenn until he was less than twenty feet from him, but the man still reacted more quickly than Cenn would have guessed he'd be able to. Still, Craster was both old and built to hit hard, not fast, and so Cenn slipped right under the fist the man had thrown at his head.

Slipping inside, Cenn struck Craster twice in the ribs, before leaping backwards out of range of Craster's fist. The old man overcommitted to the swing, and Cenn drove his knee into the old man's side and brought both fists down as hard as he could on Craster's head.

Craster was big enough to absorb the blows, and he caught Cenn in the side of the head with a flailing fist. Spinning around, Cenn drew his obsidian knives. Craster also had gotten a knife from somewhere, and the two circled each other.

"Who are you?" demanded Craster, "And what do you want?"

Cenn did not answer, but continued to move around Craster.

"Who are you!?" Craster bellowed. Again Cenn made no answer.

The women in the keep were beginning to flock gather around the two, and Cenn did not want to take the chance these women would join in and assist Craster. He would have to finish this quickly.

"I'm the one who slays the White Walkers" he said, "and it has come to my attention that you assist them. Is it true?"

"You've never killed a Walker" Craster snorted derisively. "You'd piss your pants if you ever saw one."

Craster charged with his knife, and Cenn easily moved out of the way, making no attempt to counterattack.

"I am going to kill you, Craster."

Craster attacked again, and again missed Cenn spectacularly when Cenn darted to the side. But Cenn was done playing with him. Craster spun around, and was met by a thrown dagger that buried itself in his shoulder. Cenn's second knife buried itself in Craster's knee. He fell to his good knee, and screamed in agony when Cenn impaled him with his spear. Cenn pulled his spear out of the screaming lump of flesh beneath him, and drove it into the flesh of Craster's thigh, careful to avoid the artery. Cenn stabbed Craster a third time, burying the obsidian tip into Craster's opposite calf.

"For some reason, the Old Ones call me Dealmaker" Cenn said. "I don't know why they call me that, but I may as well live up to the name. So I'll make you a deal, Craster. You see, I don't think it would be enough a punishment to kill you right now. So here's what I propose: I will let you live another few months if you release the boy to me. If you accept my proposal, I will take the boy, and leave you here like this. But I will back some day, less than a year from now, and I will kill you. You are no condition to terrorize these women any more. You have nothing. But I think you are enough of a coward to take the deal.

"If you do not accept, I'll kill you now and take the boy anyway. But you will not have to live in fear every single day that today will be the day I come back for you.

"What do you say?"

"Take the boy" Craster gurgled.

"What was that?" Cenn asked

"Take the boy" Craster tried to say more clearly.

"I knew you were a coward."

Cenn kicked Craster in the chin, leaving him stunned so Cenn could safely retrieve his knives without being caught in the stronger man's grip.

"He can't hurt you anymore" Cenn said to the women, who by now had surrounded him and the monster. "The muscles in his legs are severed, and his one arm is immobilized. Do what you want with him, but leave him alive. I will be back for him soon."

The women parted to let Cenn through as he moved toward the boy, but they did not treat him like one who had saved them from a monster like Craster. But Cenn did not care. He didn't do this for them; he did it to strike a blow against the Others.

"Come on boy" he said, cutting the young lad loose from the post Craster had tied him to. "You are coming with me."

"Where are you taking me" the boy asked.

"To Mance."


	18. Chapter 17

3 Months before the death of Jon Arryn

 **Dagar**

Dagar was still nursing many wounds after the attack by the Harlaw cowards four nights ago. He had not touched a drink since that night, which was an incredible feat for him. He had only visited the brothel once, and had been sure to keep himself ready in case of another attack. The exquisite creature Dagar had spent the hour with was not used to being paid so little attention to, but Dagar was alive and satisfied, had gotten his money worth, and didn't much care what the woman thought of him.

More importantly, during the last few days, Dagar had discreetly told his crew, those he would be taking on the expedition to a place the Ironborn had never been before, that they were setting sail on this day. He had told them to be ready to sail before the sun was a full hand's breath above the water. Half of the sun was above the horizon now, so Dagar figured he had a little bit of time before he needed to get back to his ship.

Dagar needed the time to walk the outskirts of Myrekeep, as he thought about what Dagmar had told him that night in the hull. Dagmar had confessed to wanting to captain his own ship, and more or less promised to challenge Dagar at some point for the _Venture_. Dagar had wrestled with that fact for three days before finally telling Dagmar the departure time for the journey.

On one hand, there was no one Dagar trusted more than Dagmar. If Dagar were the type of man who had friends, then Dagmar would be his closest one. And besides, the Iron Price was the Iron Price; if Dagmar was willing to pay it for the _Venture,_ who was Dagar to judge? After all, the Iron Price was how Dagar had come to captain the ship. It wouldn't be the worst way to go, falling to Dagmar's axe.

And yet, two things made Dagar uneasy, three made him question his decision. First, whatever their relationship was, it still seemed foolish to bring aboard someone who had openly admitted his desire to kill Dagar. Second, Dagmar commanded the crew's loyalty. While the crew respected Dagar a great deal for the way he had taken control of the ship, Dagmar was the man the crew would follow if push came to shove. While Dagmar was a true Ironborn, if he turned craven Dagmar could probably convince the entire crew to mutiny. Last, having seen the display of arms Dagmar put on when he saved Dagar's life, Dagar was not sure he could kill Dagmar, even if were healthy. The problem was Dagar was not healthy. In his current condition, Dagar stood no chance against Dagmar, should the latter attempt to take command. It was not death that scared Dagar; no, what terrified him was going down without a fight.

His walk had taken Dagar back to the sea. The beautiful sea was one of the most exquisite things a human could experience. Dagar would never understand how some people lived so much of their lives so far from it. To be separated from the sea was like being severed from the birthing cord while still in the womb. It was life. And Dagar could not resist it.

What was done was done. Dagar could not rescind Dagmar's invitation to join him on the expedition. Nor could Dagar, for better or worse, resist the call of the sea. Perhaps Dagar should not have invited Dagmar, but it was too late for those concerns. Dagar was committed to his course of action.

After an uneventful walk back to the _Venture_ , Dagar was greeted by none other than Dagmar.

"Captain," he said, bowing his head slightly. "The ship will be ready to depart on time. The entire crew has been accounted for, unless you added some extra hands to this trip, and we stuffed the intruders from the other night into the latrine pit of the brothel. We were going to throw them overboard, but Valon insisted no salt wife should be buried at sea." Dagar nodded. "He seems to have taken to your opinion of the Harlaws" Dagmar added, in low voice.

"If he didn't," Dagar began, "he wouldn't have stood by while I commandeered this vessel."

"Perhaps" Dagmar conceded, "but I don't know what man would have been crazy enough to challenge you that day. The way you fought, beautiful. It was art, the way you killed those men. I don't think the Drowned God himself would have challenged you that day."

"The first time I fought three Harlaws was the best I've ever fought. The second time I fought three Harlaws, I almost met the Drowned God."

"You win some; you lose some."

"Normally, you win until you lose. Then it's all over."

Dagmar nodded, and Dagar started to walk away from him.

"Captain" Dagmar called after him. "The men were wondering if we could rename the ship. They thought _Venture_ was a foolish name."

"It is" Dagar said. "What do they want to change the name to?"

"They wanted to name it after their captain. The thought the _Redsteel_ had a nice ring to it, or perhaps the _Bloody Axe._ Some fool suggested _The Reader_ , suggesting intent to continue the war against the Harlaws. I told them none of those names would work. After all, the ship has two Redsteels and many bloody axes. The _Reader_ was a pathetically weak name for an Ironborn ship."

"I agree" Dagar said simply.

"But then old Valon, a man I'm coming to realize we should consult more often, had the perfect name for your ship."

"And what was that?"

"The _Iron Price"_

 _"_ Not a bad name."

"With your permission, Captain, I'll spread the word to the crew about the ship's new name."

"You have my permission, Dagmar. And when you are done with that, see to it that the ship gets underway, and set a course due north."

"North, sir?" Dagmar questioned. "There's nothing to the north the Ironborn haven't already pillaged except … except-"

"That is correct, Dagmar. We are going north of the Wall."

"What's north of the Wall?"

"At the very least: salt wives and the fame of going where no Ironborn has gone before. At best, exotic treasures beyond anything we can dream of."

"I'll follow your lead, Captain" the man said hesitantly, before departing.

As Dagmar began barking orders to crew, the hesitancy vanquished from his voice, Dagar began to think he was wise to include the man on his excursion. But something about a ship named the _Iron Price_ irked Dagar. But he shoved the feeling aside, turned his gaze to the north, and felt his bloodlust begin to rise.


End file.
